


Yes? And?

by Echo7



Series: Pupcake Patchwork [1]
Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Fluff, delia is into it, patsy is bad at flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23535010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echo7/pseuds/Echo7
Summary: So yes, Delia is a big reason why Patsy has been enjoying this class more than she would have predicted she would. Not that she will ever admit that to Trixie.Not that Trixie needs her to.
Relationships: Delia Busby/Patsy Mount, Trixie Franklin & Patsy Mount
Series: Pupcake Patchwork [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693711
Comments: 29
Kudos: 66





	Yes? And?

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story in our little pupcake writers fic project. All the other stories will begin with the final line from the previous fic like the surrealist writing/drawing game _exquisite corpse._
> 
> But since I’m kicking it off, we had to find a different way to get the prompt. I asked one of my fellow writers to give me a number between 1-69 🙄(the number of CtM episodes on Netflix), and she picked 21 (S3E6). So I took Mature Jenny’s closing voiceover line, and away we go…

“And if perfection eludes us, that doesn’t matter, for what we have within the moment is enough.”

Patsy cracks an eye open and looks across to Trixie. As expected, her friend’s blue eyes are wide with amusement as she meets Patsy’s sneaky gaze. A single, silent laugh escapes her smiling lips before they both close their eyes again.

In the darkness, Patsy hears Chummy exhale a long shaky breath to her immediate right.

Then, Monica Joan’s mystical voice floats out of the dark again.

“And begin.”

For a moment, all is silent. Then, a shuffle and an intake of breath somewhere to her left.

“One.” 

Phyllis, she thinks.

But then almost immediately a peppy voice that can only belong to Winifred calls out, “Two.”

A long pause, another intake of breath somewhere across the circle.

“Three.”

That was definitely Trixie.

Patsy waits in the dark. It’s the longest pause yet. She can almost feel the body next to her shift as if the blackness is liquid, waves rippling out with the slightest of movements.

“Four.”

Delia.

It’s such a strangely intimate game. Just the twelve of them. Eyes closed, one-by-one, counting to twenty-one in the dark.

Well, trying to at least. They make it all the way to seventeen when…

“Eighteen,” Peter and Chummy say simultaneously, and a chorus of disappointed groans fills the room.

Everyone opens their eyes, squinting at the brightness as Chummy apologises profusely whilst Peter just looks sheepish. Patsy gives her neighbor a scrunched up look of sympathy, but inwardly she sighs. They were so close.

Surprisingly, she finds she actually cares.

Patsy never would have thought that would be the case four weeks ago when Trixie had dragged Cynthia and her along to this beginners class at Nonnatus Improv Abbey. To say they had been reluctant participants would be a vast understatement. In fact, if pressed, Patsy could not have thought of an activity less suited to her rigid need for order and control and Cynthia’s calm, quiet nature. But Trixie had been going on about how it would do them all good to do something outside of their comfort zone - all whilst her voice had been just a bit _too_ chipper, her eyes just a bit _too_ wide. 

They knew the signs. 

So, Patsy and Cynthia had simply exchanged the briefest looks of quiet commiseration before agreeing with forced smiles firmly in place.

After all, it wasn’t the worst thing they had been dragged into. This class was just the latest in Trixie’s range of attempts to find alcohol-free activities for them all to participate in. At the time, their friend had been nearly two months sober, and Patsy was just relieved it wasn’t another pottery class. The last thing she needed was another ghastly, lopsided mug cluttering up her cupboards. Why they had decided she should be the one to keep all their wonky creations was beyond her. Her new flat wasn’t _that_ empty.

“Synchronise your minds,” Monica Joan says as she floats by behind an uneasy looking man named Fred, “Feel what your neighbor is thinking. One doesn’t need speech to communicate what is flowing through one’s thoughts.”

As if to demonstrate their teacher’s words, Patsy can practically feel someone watching her from her left side. She turns to find an amused set of beautiful blue eyes, and, to her horror, Patsy feels her cheeks grow warm.

She closes her eyes, hoping that Monica Joan is mistaken and Delia cannot, in fact, feel what she is thinking. God, _that_ would be absolutely mortifying.

Patsy takes a deep breath. 

“One.”

  
  


\---

  
  


So yes, Delia is a big reason why Patsy has been enjoying this class more than she would have predicted she would. Not that she will ever admit that to Trixie. 

Not that Trixie needs her to. 

In fact, the blonde in question is currently standing on the back line, directing an all-too-knowing look Patsy’s way as Monica Joan admonishes Winifred for her shoddy object work for the third time that hour. Patsy sinks further into her seat in the audience, pretending to ignore her friend and focusing her eyes on their teacher standing on the makeshift stage. But of course, Delia unwittingly blows her cover by ducking her head against Patsy’s shoulder to muffle her laughter.

She can practically hear Trixie’s smug grin.

“Do you possess the power of telekinesis?” Monica Joan asks from her position at the front of the stage, her wizened face oddly earnest considering the bizarre nature of her question. 

“You were sipping from a teacup in your right hand whilst holding the saucer in your left,” she says, contemplatively miming drinking from an invisible cup, “But then you gestured,” she waves her hands around dramatically, “And suddenly the saucer is in your right hand and the cup in your left,” she gives Winifred an appraising look, “Either you are a magician masquerading as an office secretary or you need to better embody the reality you have created in your mind.”

“You know,” Delia whispers close to her ear, and Patsy feels every hair on her neck stand on end, “Even though the ‘comedy’ part of improv comedy seems to be completely accidental on her part, I think Monica Joan is the best improv teacher I’ve ever had.”

This is the first time Patsy has really had a chance to talk to Delia. Sure, she’s played games with her and done scenes with her, but any time they’ve chatted off-stage during the past month, Trixie and Cynthia have been there too. To be honest, Patsy had been quite content with the safety of that dynamic, but given Trixie’s watchful look and Cynthia’s apologetic one, she doesn’t think this sudden alone time is exactly accidental.

Bloody Trixie. 

It seems she’s added matchmaking to her list of alcohol-free extracurriculars, and Patsy finds herself thinking she’d have much preferred having to live through another horrendous evening of sober karaoke. And that was _saying something_.

“So,” Patsy says, physically turning so that her back is to her meddling best friend, “This isn’t your first time doing improv?”

And oh, she did not think this through at all. She might no longer have Trixie’s inquisitive blue eyes to deal with, but she now has a much closer view of Delia’s. And God, she has such lovely eyes.

Patsy is royally screwed.

“No, I did a lot in uni,” Delia tells her, leaning forward so as to not disturb the group up on stage, “Haven’t done it in years though, but I thought it’d be a good way to meet new people since I’m new to the city.”

She’s leaning in so close, and Patsy kind of hates it. Except she really doesn’t.

At all.

So, _so_ screwed.

“How do these classes stack up to the ones you took in Wales?” she asks, hoping her voice sounds much more casual than she feels.

Delia tilts her head to the side, thinking. “Well, some things are a constant in every class, no matter where you are.”

“Oh?”

Delia leans in even more, dropping her voice low, “Well, you always have a few people who are taking the class as some sort of weird professional development. Take Peter for example,” she says, and they both turn to look at the stocky police constable blushing his way through a scene with Chummy and Trixie. “He’s doing this as a way to get his confidence up before he sits his sergeant’s exam.”

“Then there’s always at least one older person like Phyllis who is the kind of life-long learner that’s always looking for ways to expand her horizons, or like Patrick who is trying to recapture his youth. Then there’s the ones looking to make friends like Winifred...or me, I suppose,” she says, looking slightly self-conscious.

She shouldn’t be. Patsy thinks she’s actually rather brave. She certainly would never have the courage to come to something like this on her own. But then, she’s never been one to seek out new friends either. If she and Cynthia hadn’t been assigned to the same suite as Trixie back in uni, she expects they both would have the lively social calendars of cloistered nuns.

“And what about me?” Patsy asks, wanting to wipe that uncertain expression off of Delia’s face. “Why am I here?”

Delia gives her an appraising look. Up. And down. 

Patsy tries not to squirm.

“Easy. You’re here to support your friend.”

Patsy raises an eyebrow. “Am I now?”

Delia nods, grinning. Patsy finds she really likes dimples.

“You and Cynthia both.”

“What makes you think this wasn’t my idea?” she asks, trying her best to sound affronted.

“Patsy,” Delia says, deadpan, “I was here the first day when we played the ball game, remember?”

Patsy winces.

She does remember.

Everyone else had gamely tossed around an invisible object, letting it morph from a ball to a paper airplane to a sack of potatoes as they struggled and reached to catch it. Patsy had felt utterly foolish, stiffly putting in the minimum effort to toss it onto the next person. 

Now, she felt foolish for _not_ joining in that day. The difference a month makes.

On stage, Barbara is looking around helplessly with her arms full of some unknown imaginary objects, clearly afraid to make the same mistake as Winifred and let them vanish into midair. Monica Joan looks her over critically, then takes something from her arms.

“Put down the bananas,” she says, nodding solemnly, “They are superfluous to the situation.”

Patsy feels a warm hand on her wrist. 

“Hey,” Delia softly says, and Patsy realises she must have been staring off into space for longer than she’d thought, “It’s okay. A lot of people find it hard to let go at first. It’s been a while since we were all kids and let ourselves just play.”

Patsy forces a smile. She’d never _really_ played, not even as a child. But she certainly didn’t want to get into _that_ right now.

“Besides,” Delia continues, “You’re doing great now. And the fact that you came to something like this for your friend, even when it is so clearly _not_ your thing, says a lot about you.”

This time, Patsy’s smile is genuine, if a little self-conscious. Delia grins, and then her eyes fill with what can only be described as mischief.

“Which is more than I can say for some people. I swear, no matter how many classes I take, there is always _at least_ one man who is just there looking to pull.”

As one, they both look over at Tom, who is, despite being _on stage_ , at that very moment turning from his fruitless attempt to chat up Trixie over to Barbara, who just looks profoundly uncomfortable.

“God, yes. I think that man would flirt with any woman who makes eye contact with him, which is a bit problematic seeing as half of our warm-up games seem to rely on it,” Patsy sighs.

Delia has to cover her mouth to smother her laughter, ducking her head again into Patsy’s shoulder. 

So utterly and completely screwed.

 _Finally_ , Delia lifts her head, laughter colouring her voice as she looks at Patsy with shining eyes. 

“You’re not wrong. He even tried to flirt with me until I made it quite clear he was barking up the wrong tree.”

Patsy stills. Flushes.

Did that mean…

She’d thought. She’d _hoped_.

“You remember last week when we did that scene where Fred and I had to try to teach him to dance?” Patsy asked, scrunching her face up at the memory.

Delia nods.

“He tried chatting me up as well. Thought he was going to ask me out before I told him he was not my type. _At. All_.”

“Oh?” Delia asks, all wide-eyed, innocent confusion.

What Patsy should have said is, _‘yes, because I like women,’_ or _‘yes, because I am gay,’_ or even, _‘yes, because as my weekly parade of checked-shirts and complete inability to have a conversation with you without blushing like an idiot has probably made obvious, I am a giant, useless lesbian.’_

But no. The awkward word vomit that leaves Patsy’s mouth is, “Let’s just say there are certain things he lacks...and certain things he has too much of...for me.”

Delia hums thoughtfully, giving Tom a critical once-over. “Yes, his breasts are rather lacking aren’t they?”

Patsy’s eyes go wide.

Over Delia’s shoulder, she sees Phyllis trying - and failing - to suppress a smirk.

_Et tu, Phyllis?_

A cry of agony from Monica Joan has them both whipping their attention back to the stage just in time to see Chummy blundering right through the invisible bicycle Fred was pretending to repair.

  
  


\---

  
  


Monica Joan decides that they need to pair up and practice their object work.

And, because Trixie is evil and a terrible friend, she immediately grabs Cynthia’s arm and steers them away to the other side of the room, despite having _just been told_ all about how much of a fool Patsy had made of herself in front of the cute girl who was very much _not_ the reason she was enjoying these improv classes, thank you very much.

She turns to find Delia looking at her with an inquisitive eyebrow raised and a smile that sinks her dimples deep into her cheeks.

“Propose a situation for your counterpart to perform,” Monica Joan instructs them in her typical florid manner, “Create the objects in the mind of your audience. Sense how they rest in your hands. Then take them out of the ephemera and manifest them into physical existence. And as always, remember the first rule of improvisation...always give affirmation and offer an addition.”

Delia rolls her eyes, muttering, “Why she can’t just say _‘yes, and,’_ I’ll never understand.”

“And begin.”

They take it in turn to give each other suggestions of activities - packing a suitcase, smoking a cigarette, eating an apple, mixing a cocktail. Their renditions get longer and more involved each time. As Patsy kneels with her face close to the floor, gently blowing on the struggling embers of her imaginary campfire, or as she watches Delia leaning against an invisible worktop, bleary-eyed, as she waits for the kettle to heat up, Patsy has to admit she hasn’t had this much simple, unadulterated fun in _years_ . Perhaps, ever. For once, Patsy stops thinking so much and just lets herself _be_. It’s downright liberating.

The class is finally winding down when Delia suggests that they exchange numbers.

Patsy reaches into her back pocket for her phone and unlocks it. She swipes through to the contact app, opens a new contact, and holds her phone out for Delia to take.

But Delia doesn’t take it. Patsy looks up, eyebrows arched in confusion only to see Delia biting her lip to hold back her laughter, looking utterly fond.

“I meant in your _actual_ phone, you fool,” she says, looking pointedly down at Patsy’s outstretched hand.

Her outstretched, empty hand.

Patsy blushes, feeling embarrassed. “Oh,” but then the implications of Delia’s suggestion sink in and, “ _Oh_. You mean...”

Delia smiles, nodding. “I’d very much like to have your number so that I can ask if you’d like to go out sometime. On a date. Maybe even with real coffee. No invisible objects involved.”

Patsy feels a smile hook up her face. “I think I’d quite like that.”

They exchange phones and then stand there smiling at each other for just a little too long before Delia holds her phone up, giving it a little shake. “So, I’ll text you later then.”

After Delia leaves, Patsy can’t help but open up her phone, grinning down at the new contact with the little rainbow and tree emojis.

That’s when she feels it. A shift in the atmosphere. A ripple in the ether.

She looks up to find two pairs of eyes watching her - one warm and supportive, the other absolutely _delighted_.

Shit.

Trixie is going to be utterly unbearable.

  
  
  


  
  


**Author's Note:**

> That was a tough line to start with, but it just seemed a natural for our Sister Monica Joan. She was _this_ close to being a yoga instructor but then I realized I know nothing about yoga! So she became the improv instructor I would want if I ever decided to do improv (which I never will). But, a very special thank you to my lovely and funny wife who has the actual improv performance experience for giving me some pointers and correcting me when I got things wrong. 
> 
> Coming soon: A story by MystWords! 
> 
> Want to participate? Send me an email at echo7fic [at] gmail.com to get in on the action. All pupcake writers welcome!


End file.
